


Chatoyance & Starstones

by Rubynye



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Clothed Sex, F/M, Fingerfucking, Genderswap, Kink Meme, Oral Sex, Size Kink, fem!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:49:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two linked tales of Thorin Oakenshield and his beloved burglar, Beryl Baggins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chatoyance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None has been more loyal, braver, nor more willing than Beryl Baggins, his little burglar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story we will go with movie-height for Thorin (4' 10" /1.48 m) and book-height for Beryl (3'/ 0.92 m). Because. _Sizekink_.

Thorin Oakenshield is finally home. He has endured long years of exile, war, toil, and privation. He has reclaimed Erebor, his ancestral City Under The Mountain. He has rescued his grandfather's treasure from the dragon, and spent hours simply contemplating its golden glow, absorbing the thought that at long last he has achieved what he swore he would do.

He has accomplished, but not alone; his companions have aided him, fulfilling the promise of their loyal, courageous, willing hearts, and none has been more loyal, braver, nor more willing than Beryl Baggins, his little burglar. Thorin looks out across his hall, heaped with shining gold and brightly specked with jewels, and thinks of her tousled yellow hair and shining leaf-brown eyes, her thousand mobile faces of disgust and wonder, her furrowed brow and unquiet mouth. He had barely reckoned her female when she hid herself in short trousers and countless layers of clothing, when in needing to be pulled from danger after danger she brought to mind nothing so much as an untried lad tagging after his elders. Her people tend to high and piping voices and to soft plumpness, the men and women both, and when she came into her strength and shrewdness he found himself proud of her much as he'd been of Fili and Kili's earliest achievements with sword and bow.

Thorin held to that view until their Company first plunged into their rescued treasure, until whilst wading in riches and triumph he found a little mithril shirt and bade Beryl wear it. She'd pulled off jacket and vest and shirt after shirt until she reached a laced white bodice, then slipped the mail-shirt on over that; it hung to the tops of her thighs, outlining their swells with its chased hem, silver-steel shimmering upon her curving hips and full-fleshed arms and sweetly rounded breasts, and Thorin saw then that Beryl was a woman indeed. He thinks on that vision now as the reddened windows dim with sunset, on her shining eyes as she saw him see her, and leaves his treasure to go and find her.

She stands on the wall laughing with his sister-sons as Bofur pipes a merry tune, and Thorin wonders if he ever understood how little she is, her head hardly high as Fili's elbow. So little, so rounded, so fair. He beckons and she comes to him, he dares drape an arm round her and her head tucks into its crook.

He leads her through Erebor, pointing out its beauties and pleased that she looks at least as admiring as when they stumbled into Imladris, to the royal family's apartments, disused these long years. The dragon ripped out the precious embellishments but otherwise let the chambers be, and Thorin found his own rooms just as he left them a lifetime ago, the undecayed mattress just waiting a change of sheets. Now he draws Beryl into his bedchamber and kneels before her to put their faces level. "My Mistress Baggins," he addresses her wide eyes, gentling his voice as best he can, cupping her little long-fingered hands between his, "you and our companions have restored my home to me."

"A grand city it is too, your tales barely did it justice." Beryl glances up at the pale stone walls around them, lit by flickering lamplight as the sunset fades. "Although, might we camp on the mountainside another day or three? It still smells rather dreadfully of dragon in here."

As she speaks he pays more heed to her plump pink lips than to the words. "I have not slept in this chamber since the day the dragon drove us out," he tells her, and draws a deep breath, and asks, "Would you spend my first night in my own bed with me?"

She blinks, lashes fluttering, and smiles as if disbelieving. "Me, Thorin, I mean, your Majesty?"

"Yes, you. My valiant Beryl." She reddens at that, like alabaster filled with wine, casting her glance downwards, and he dares brush a kiss across her brow to prove his sincerity and to turn her large brown eyes upon him again. "Please. Lie with me tonight."

Her pretty mouth opens, and shuts, and blooms into a sweet smile, and his heart lurches within him, long-frozen sinews now stretching. "This is -- just tonight?" she asks, and he remembers that she's always meant to take her share back to her Shire at the end of their quest. She must not leave, he thinks, he cannot bear now to let her go, and her brow creases with what she sees on his face, her smile fading. Swiftly he nods, and she smiles again, she leans in and favors him with a brief kiss from her soft little mouth. "Then yes, I'll sleep with you tonight."

When she gives another kiss he looses his hands to wrap his arms around her, pressing her plush body to his chest, and she squeaks into his mouth and grips his cloak. "We are overdressed," he murmurs to her, but has to kiss her again at length, has to taste the smoky sweetness on her tongue, before he can let her go to disrobe.

Beryl steps back a pace, her eyebrows high. "I might be pleasanter to tup if you haven't squeezed me flat first," she says, and he laughs for the first time in long memory. "I don't think I've ever heard you be merry," she says more softly, folding her jacket with care, smiling shyly as she unbuttons and doffs her vest and then her outer shirt. Thorin's fingers itch to strip the layered cloth from her shoulders, to feel her wearing only her smooth pink skin and the mithril shirt; counseling himself to patience, he concentrates on his own clothing, mail and tunics, trousers and unders. He looks up from laying aside the last of it and smiles at what he sees, Beryl naked and soft and looking upon him with eyes gone dark with hunger. "I do believe," she says, setting out each word like a gem as her gaze roves him, "you are the most beautiful dwarf I've ever seen."

"Then we are well matched." Thorin steps forward, laying his hands on her warm plush shoulders, feasting his own eyes on her rosy-tipped breasts, her rounded belly, her shining eyes as she turns her face up to him. "For you are the loveliest halfling I have seen."

“You’ve seen only few,” she argues, pert as ever, and he catches up the mithril shirt and drops it over her impertinent head. She makes donning it into a dance in place, the mithril flowing down her curves like chainspun light, and now he must have her in his bed this very instant. "Oh, doesn't that feel odd!" She breathes, deep and rousingly, to ask the questions he can see in her eyes, and he forestalls them by catching her up in his arms, squeezing her to feel her plush resilience. As he hefts her she squeaks into his chest, her fine little fingers dragging in the hair there. “Thorin!” she cries, and he answers her in a rumble and a kiss laid atop her tousled head, inhaling her hair's scent as he swings her round. “Oh, I can walk, oh!” She lands with enough force to bounce, and he climbs in over her, bracketing her in with his body, looking down into her wide bottomless eyes as he drags his broad thumb the soft small length of her lower lip.

“Beryl,” he murmurs, her name sweet on his tongue, and when he kisses her her lips part like petals as her arms curve round his neck, when he rests himself upon her she sighs as her body cushions his, her pillowy thighs pressed to his ribs, naught between them but silken metal suffused with her warmth. When he finds her peaked nipple through the mail, brushing his thumb across it as lightly as he can force himself to, she shudders and shifts and groans, the wet heat of her unfurling below his breastbone as her sleekly furred heels stroke down his back. He cannot stop kissing her, her clever little tongue flicking along his, her sweet sighs tingling through his lips into his boiling blood, but he must if he is to cover her, to feel her plush heat around him instead of the soft sheets he drags his member across. He slides his hand beneath the mithril, over the smoothness of her rounded thigh and incurved waist, and burns for her until his melting sinews yield enough to let him shake.

The note in her voice tilts towards discomfort, her palms push at his beard, and Thorin wrenches himself back from Beryl, rocking onto his side. Draped with shimmering mithril, her quivering breasts and plump belly make for a stirringly lovely sight as he waits for her eyes to open dazedly, for her rounded mouth to curve into a smile. “Oh, the feel of you!” She slides her fingers along his chest, stroking his nipple with her cushiony palm.

“Did I crush you?” He drapes her hip with his hand, stroking along the billowy curve of her waist and side.

“Oh, no! Well, perhaps, but so nicely! All your solidity and strength, it’s just a pity I had to breathe. And oh my word.” She shifts beneath his hand, reaching with both of hers for his member. “Look at this majestic scepter.”

Her smile tilts with mischief and he has to laugh again, twice in one evening, since forever. Her fingers curl around him, neither hand quite meeting, and he hisses with the jolting delight of her touch. “Shall we try its fit?” he asks, wrapping his hands round her little waist, his fingertips near to meeting as he rolls upon his back and lifts her to his thighs.

Beryl rolls her eyes at him for it, but he can see the awe beneath. “You don’t need to move me everywhere,” she says, stroking him up and down.

“And if I wish to, my jewel, when you fit so beautifully in the palms of my hands?” Though she pulls one of her faces she shudders in his hold, and he tilts his knees up to shift her closer.

She totters and chuckles, merry and bright. “Let me just,” she murmurs, leaning forwards, and drags her tongue up along the underside of his shaft, a narrow hot swipe that sets him groaning, half undone already. Beryl hums as she laves and strokes him from root to crease, tracing the flare of his cockhead but no further up. Thorin pulls his hands from her, digs his fingers into the crackling mattress beneath him and lets her have her will for as long as he can restrain himself, though flame dances across his skin and his cockhead glistens red and wet with readiness.

At last, far too soon, she sits back upon his thighs, moaning as he’s heard her upon eating a sweetmeat. “Aren't you luscious,” she tells him, her fingers bracketing his base, her tongue flicking pinkly across her garnet lips. “I think now we might try it, though it’ll be tight.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he murmurs low, and Beryl’s flush deepens as she casts her eyes up to his. Freed to reach for her, Thorin lifts her up and holds her there as her eyelids fall and she settles herself upon him.

His arms barely strain with her small weight, trembling only to keep still as she strokes herself open for him. “There,” she gasps as she pushes down upon him, easing him into herself. “There, oh, oh my indeed.” Her fingers spread across his belly, ruffling the hair, ten narrow brands on his skin. “Oh, Thorin.”

Her voice filling his ears, her cunny supple and slick, Thorin grits his teeth against pleasure and eases within her, fingersbreadth by fingersbreadth of glorious rippling heat around him as Beryl breathes out lilting sighs and noisily sucks in breaths until quivering flesh and mithril meet his thighs. “Oh, oh,” she cries out, words breaking into a thousand notes of exultation, and he groans to her, underlying her voice with his as he pulls her up and she pushes with him, her toes clutching the sheets by his hips where his fingers lately clenched. She shrieks as he hauls her down, their flesh meeting with a cushioned thump, and the strokes run together faster and faster, her screams louder and wilder, his own voice rising to meet hers as his blood surges towards completion.

Her fingers denting his belly, her head thrown back as her hair flies around her face, Beryl shudders into her peak, her voice shattering high and sharp. She ripples around him, clutching him intimately, and Thorin roars his triumph and releases himself to follow her into pulsing pleasure. She droops over him with a soft cry, and he eases her down onto his belly, her hair brushing his breastbone, his still-twitching member snug within her as they resound with each other’s trembles, shivering together in the warmth they’ve raised.

“Oh my, what a mighty hammering,” she murmurs to him, and as he looks down into her shining eyes his face stretches in an unfamiliarly wide smile. Hers is sleek and merry, her chin resting above his heart as she jiggles her hips, shifting around him. “My mighty Thorin.”

“My lovely Beryl.” Sliding his hands from silken mithril to tender flesh, Thorin grips a double handful of rounded buttock and pulls her up his body, off his twitching member and over his chest as he watches her eyes and mouth go round, till he can reach up to grasp her hair and pull her down into a plunging kiss. “My sweet Halfling,” he whispers into her yielding cheek, and she laughs like a girl and whoops as he tumbles them over.

Impatient now for her skin, he strips the mithril shirt from her rosy body, and her eyes flutter wide. “I’d wondered why you had me in armor of all bedclothes…” From musing to laughing, she tries to squirm away from his regard until he rolls her to her back and pins her with a hand on her shoulder, his thumb stroking the velvet-damp notch of her throat as he fills his eyes with her lush nudity. “There you go, tossing me about again,” she says, voice tart as her curves are sweet.

“I would see all of you.” He firms his grip till her eyes flare wide, her throat narrow and fine in the crook of his hand, her breast a creamy round in the curve of his other palm.

“Me?” Her fingers curl round his wrists, her furred calves stroke his belly, her eyes sparkle like dark opals. “The same lass you first likened to a shop-maid, the same soft little nuisance who'd never survive in the wild...!” Thorin crushes his lips over hers to quiet his own words flung back at him, drinks down her moans as her little nipple stiffens beneath his fingertip, drags his mouth down her throat and across her collarbones, velvet-cushioned twigs that creak beneath his kisses. Her blue-veined breasts curve sweetly against his tongue, one and the other, and she’s gasping again, clutching at his hair, arching into the press of his mouth as he lays his teeth lightly to her cream-soft belly.

Thorin must know if her skin is so tender all over, has to grip her hip and roll her to her front. His fingers leave red smears from waist to thigh, she cries out in breathless joy and whimpers beneath his mouth, laid where her neck meets her shoulder as he suckles the heat of her blood to the surface. Her little fists burrow into his sheets, her spine bows as he licks and bites along it, he roves the cushioned sweep of her short back with broad greedy hands.

She finds her words by ones and twos, gasping his name and praising his mouth, crying out, “Your beard, your hands, oh my word, oh my, oh my.” Her voice rises higher and sharper with each kiss he sucks across her delectable buttocks, she trembles beneath his tongue in the secret creases of her thighs as he tastes her, sweet musk mingled with his salt-tinged spending. He nuzzles her open, drowning himself in her richness, and she shrieks and wriggles so that he must grip her hips to hold her. “Your beard, oh, it tickles, or, like a million miniscule fingers, no, like, I don’t even know!” She moans and laughs as he lays his tongue to her tenderest flesh, rolling her little pearl with his tonguetip till she screams for him, bucking against his face, writhing towards him rather than away. Never, ever away. He licks and sucks and feasts upon her pleasure till her words shatter into singing cries, till her moans tumble into sobs, till she’s shuddering ceaselessly, her redolent skin sweat-dewed beneath his hands.

Now he pulls his mouth from her to kiss his path up her silken back, to graze her ear’s point with his teeth as he tugs her hips up, to sink himself into her, her tumbled curls flicking his chin. He murmurs to her as he has her, every word rumbling up from his heart, surging like the roll of his hips and the beat in his blood. "I would drape you in gold and jewels," he tells her, as she cries out beneath him and flutters around him. "I would see you shine as a queen, moonstones and diamonds bespangling in your hair, emeralds and beryls glittering on your brow and throat, all Erebor's riches pooled at your feet…" She grips his wrists and rolls her hips, undulating into his thrusts, and he drops his head groaning and gives himself over to hilting himself within her opulent flesh, again and again until she wrings his peak from him in a lengthy, gloriously wrenching cascade.

Afterwards, all his sinews unstrung, it is all he can do not to sink down flat upon her. He pulls from her with a luscious wet sound, tips to his side so his arm drapes across her back and his knee slides between hers, and for awhile they lie as they fell, no sound between them but their rushing breaths.

At length Beryl slides herself closer, leaning into Thorin's side, and he lays his hand behind her pounding heart; he looks upon its spread, coarse-backed upon her fine rosy skin, and thinks he could rise for another round if he let himself. However she yawns, curling up, and he drags the sheets up around them and pulls his cloak from the floor to cover them both, and waits.

At length she turns beneath his arm, and when she opens her dazed eyes he's reminded of cat's eye cabochons, of star gems, by the light glittering amidst their dark warmth. "Well that was a sweet venture indeed," she tells him, her voice pleasure-scorched to roughness. "Like going to bed with a summer storm." She touches his chin and bubbles with weary laughter. "Your beard's still damp. You are astonishing."

"As are you," he tells her, tucking her beneath his chin again, against his heart. She makes one of her doubtful little noises, but yawns again, snug within his arms, and sleeps. With Beryl's soft weight upon his chest and her steady breath lulling him, Thorin soon sleeps as well, deeply and dreamlessly and utterly at peace, for he is home.

** * **

In the morning Balin wakes them. "My apologies," he says, grave and gentle as ever. "Good morning, Mistress Beryl."

"Good morning, Master Balin," Beryl answers, blushing at Thorin's side. He ruffles her hair as he sits up, allotting himself a brief thought of the delicate coronet he might fashion to lay upon those tumbled curls, before he pushes the thoughts of happiness aside as he turns towards the business Balin has brought him.

It is dark business indeed. "An army approaches," Balin reports as Thorin rises to dress, "of Men, likely from Esgaroth judging by what the ravens say of their direction and gear."

Beryl, who had tucked herself beneath the bedclothes, sits up at those words. "They must need our help!" she says. "Smaug destroyed their town and the winter's coming on, they could use some gold to pay for rebuilding--"

"No." Thorin cuts her off. He alone is king. "Not when they come in force to push my hand. No thief nor army of thieves shall have one grain of Erebor's treasures!" There's more to say, but her eyes have gone round and brown as wet agates, she shrinks beneath his cloak, he can hear his voice echo from the walls.

So he stops his words and goes to her, to trade her a gentle kiss for his cloak. "Rise and dress whenever you will," he tells her in his softest voice, "in all your many layers," and she smiles again. "Don't forget the mithril."

Then he leaves her in his bed and makes himself turn away, and goes with Balin to survey the defenses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Far later, mere days later, when he snatches his little traitor up to fling her over his wall, Thorin’s fingers dug into Beryl’s shoulders remember the resilient plushness of her flesh, his eyes fill with the sight of hers so wide and bright in her fear, but beyond her moonstone-pale face the Arkenstone shines far below, calling to him for rescue from the unworthy grasp she gave it over to, and all the love in his heart is but more fuel for his rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompty prompt prompt: _fem!Bilbo/Thorin, sizekink  
>  I would just really love a purely smutty PWP where Bilba/Billa/Blossom/whatever we're calling female!Bilbo revels in how tall and broad and sturdy and hairy and big Thorin is, and/or Thorin can't get enough of how little and plump and round and sweet she is. Size Kink 4 Evr, basically._
> 
> _http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=13393341#t13393341_
> 
> __


	2. Starstones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why did he come to love her now, when she's realized how she must hurt him?

Thorin finds her at nightfall, as the Company lays out their bedrolls after a long day of shoring up Erebor's half-ruined defenses. Beryl hoists her weary head, ignoring any glances as he leads her into the lofty dimness; no one said anything when Balin found her in Thorin's bed, nor anytime after, and she hopes that friendly lack of comment holds.

After all, she has no idea what to say in return.

"We cannot disrobe, not under siege," he murmurs, ushering her into his moonlight-lit bedroom; Beryl knows better than to say he could lift that siege if he'd only trade stubbornness for generosity. Broad hands round her waist, he lifts her to his bed as if she can't climb, his night-blue eyes glinting fever-bright, and she lets her wonder hide her fear. He is so beautiful, smiling between her little hands cupping his soft beard, a king out of legend choosing her of all people to take to his bed; why did he reach for her _now_ , as a war of his own making looms over them, when she wishes she could even be angry with him?

Why did he come to love her now, when she's realized how she must hurt him? 

"I am sorry," Thorin whispers, her belly clenching as his broad fingers gently trace her ear's point, heat and guilt clashing within her as his gaze pierces her heart. "I wish I might kiss all your smooth soft skin, might warm you better than this."

"Kiss my mouth and warm me all through." Beryl closes her eyes, unable to look into his while her guilty thoughts whirl; as he kisses her, his beard softly raspy, she sighs in relief and he rumbles passionate response. She drowns her wits in him as in a deep ale, pushing away thought in favor of feeling Thorin Oakenshield's mighty arms round her, her lover's hands gentle all over her, pressing her body warmly even through her layered clothes. 

Beryl trembles and whimpers beneath Thorin's hands and hair and kisses, pliantly lets him shift her about and delights in his strength; it isn't until he's sat up against the wall and drawn her between his long hard thighs, until she has avidly unlaced him and hungrily pulled him out, that her thoughts return. As she licks him, rich musk and salt on her tongue, his almost pained groan makes her look up; he meets her gaze, his hand spanning her face from temple to chin, his smile so sweet her heart aches. 

She thinks to resubmerge in the pleasurable task of sucking him off, pushing her mouth down till she has to breathe against gagging, swallowing around him and feeling him quiver; then Thorin's fingers thread through her hair so tenderly her eyes ache and her chest knots up, his rich deep voice pouring out in words of love that burn her inside like a drink of acid. "My beauty, my jewel," he calls her, and her nose stuffs shut so that she must gasp between strokes. "When this is over I'll crown you with starstones, drape them round your brow to match your eyes, I'll wreathe you in gold and present you to my people, my maiden braver than any warrior, who saved and succored me, who won me my home again. Oh, my valiant Beryl, I'll dedicate to you a thousand thousand of your namesakes, the tales of your glory shall echo through my carven halls…" Helpless beneath the sweet tribute she knows he'll recant come morning, Beryl chokes herself on him till her lips and lungs burn, till her roaring blood drowns out his painful praise, till she has an excuse for the tears streaking her face.

He groans, shuddering, and she pushes herself on, gratefully distracting herself with the goal of his pleasure, until his peak floods her mouth and her mind with satisfaction. "Beryl, Beryl," Thorin rumbles as he pulls her up, his thumbs sweeping her cheeks as he rolls her to her back, his shining smile filling her eyes as he slides a hand over her belly into her bloomers to tease her open on a jolt of pleasure. She sniffles as she moans, clutching his beard as he kisses her cheek and chin, as he fills her to an ecstatic ache with two long fingers; squeezing down on them, she sobs with delight, writhing on his hand as he kisses her cries off her lips, and when she screams in her peak it reverberates inside her emptied mind. 

But her dark thoughts creep in again, even as they chuckle like tweens over righting their clothes, even as Thorin curls around Beryl and falls into peaceful sleep. For a long moment she delays beside him, warm and snug and tingling from his ministrations, carding her fingers through his hair as she remembers how he tupped her till she could feel him in back of her throat, how he promises his love in terms of riches till her heart aches with abashed delight. Beneath the shield of his strong arm she breathes his warm stone-tinged musk and considers that if she abandons her plan she could settle to sleep right here, could continue in Thorin's hard-won favor, could have and be had by him again… until the looming battle descends and Erebor suffers a second fall. Then she could well see him die, and their companions with him, uselessly, needlessly. 

On that thought, her chest tight with sleepless grief, Beryl shifts cautiously from beneath Thorin's arm and slips down from his bed to walk alone into the darkness. Biting her lip against weeping, steeling her spine against fear, she creeps hobbit-quietly through Erebor's lightless halls, to retrieve the Arkenstone, to relieve Bombur of his watch, to betray her beloved king for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this to my prompt, "Last time."


End file.
